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Poemsby Emily Dickinson

XLIV

 If I may have it when it's dead
I will contented be;
If just as soon as breath is out
It shall belong to me,
 Until they lock it in the grave,
'T is bliss I cannot weigh,
For though they lock thee in the grave,
Myself can hold the key.
 Think of it, lover! I and thee
Permitted face to face to be;
After a life, a death we'll say, —
For death was that, and this is thee.